The Pathological Liar - The Disappearance

He had even asked my friend to convince me not to have my son. Said I was too young. Played it as concern, but I knew the truth: he didn’t want a child with me. And yeah, I was young. But I wanted that baby. I wanted someone to love — and someone who would love me back. Now, when I think back, that’s a guilt that creeps in. Because I see how selfish that might’ve been. I brought a child into the world I wasn’t ready for.

There was a day I came home to a note saying he was out with friends playing ball. His shoes and basketball were still by the door. I knew he was lying. I headed to the court he usually played at — he wasn’t there. Something in me told me to check behind the school. And there he was. Sitting in the field with a girl straddling him.

My heart dropped.

In that moment, I had two choices:
Walk away and pack my things.
Or approach them, let them see that I saw.

I approached. The closer I got, the sicker I felt. I stood above them as they kissed. He looked up — face gone pale like he’d seen a ghost.

Calmly, I said:
“I’m his girl. I’m pregnant with his child, by the way. But you can have him.”

And I walked away.

I moved out. Back in with my mom for a while. But her demands were unrealistic. She wanted $600 a month for a bed in a shared space — not even my own room. This was 1993. She knew I couldn’t pay. Maybe that was her way of pushing me out without saying the words — so it wouldn’t look like she was kicking her pregnant teen daughter to the street.

But I didn’t give up. I looked for work, answered ads. I landed an interview.

When I showed up, visibly pregnant, the man asked about my situation. I explained. Something in him compelled him to help. That’s when I met the Peruvian lady — a whole story of her own.

She introduced me to a different life. A criminal life. Pickpocketing. Distraction schemes. Credit card fraud. At the time, I didn’t see it as crime — I saw it as survival. I saved money. Bought everything my son would need. Got my own place. I thought I was doing it right. Starting over. Giving him a better life.

Then, he showed up again. Playing the role of family man. Changed man. Loving father. I believed him — because I wanted to. I let him in.

He always came back, just long enough to twist the knife.

He robbed me again.

Not just money. But my peace. My trust. My safety.

When my son was around three months old, I moved back in with the Peruvian lady. Somewhere in those weeks, he got married. Behind my back. Slept with me the day after his wedding. Told me he loved me. Wanted a future.

He wore a ring. I asked about it. He said it was just a thumb ring. Fidgeted with it. Lied without flinching.

He called me from his honeymoon. Told me it was a business trip. Said he missed us. Said we’d make it work when he got back.

I believed him.

Until I told a friend about it — and found out the truth.

It hit me like a slap to the face.

How many times can a person be fooled by the same person before it becomes self-inflicted abuse?

When he got back, I confronted him.

His response:
“I’m married now. I’m better off than you. I can give him a better life than you can. He should live with me.”

That was it.

That was my trigger.

I disappeared.

No explanation. No warning. I left with my son and never looked back.

Because the biggest fear I had wasn’t losing money or dignity — it was losing my son.
And I was not going to let him be taken from me the way I was taken from my dad.

He later resurfaced. With his wife. Playing father. I tried to let him see our son, but I couldn’t stomach it — seeing that woman hold my baby. Bathe with him. Pretend they were the family I was supposed to have.

Eventually, I disappeared again.

Years later, he hired a private investigator and found me. He took me to court for access.

And that was my first real introduction to the family court system — to custody battles, to access orders, to the way the law doesn’t always protect mothers or their children.

But that’s another story. One of many.

There’s more to share about The Pathological Liar. Many threads, many scars. And I will get to all of them. But for now — this is where I’ll pause.

He was the first of many. Not the worst, not the last. Just the start of a long lesson in what love isn’t.